A Prisoner in Malta (14 page)

Argi was in peril; three men were coming his way. He withdrew a small knife from his boot and roared an incoherent threat.

Lopez saw, let go of his cloak, and rushed to Argi's side.

As he did, another shot rang out, and Lopez felt a white-hot explosion in his side. As he fell he saw a silver blade cut Argi from shoulder to waist. Argi fell backward into the sand. Lopez struggled to rise but a second bullet bit his arm.

Lopez watched as several agents swarmed around Argi.

Then the flash of a dagger caught his eye as it flew directly toward his head.

 

ELEVEN

LONDON

It was a small room, but it was in the Palace of Whitehall. Marlowe stood, paced, and even dared to sit down once or twice. Hours passed. He'd studied every inch of the room. It was ten foot square. Only one wall was given a tapestry, the other three were bare, gray stone. There was a table with two chairs, a desk with another chair, a small washbasin and a chamber pot, which seemed odd. There was no cot or bed. It was impossible to determine what manner of room this was supposed to be.

A sizeable bunch of gillyflowers and musk roses lay on the table. They made the air very sweet, and brought to Marlowe's mind, once again, the journey he and Frances had shared, returning to London.

*   *   *

The sky was dark and Frances was sleeping, still dressed as Richard. The shelter she and Marlowe had found barely kept out the rain, and she was shivering in her sleep. Marlowe saw it, and covered her with his riding cloak.

He watched her face, glancing every now and again across the moonlit fields somewhere in the south of France. They'd already endured nearly a week's hard riding, with another long week ahead. There was little time for talk, but when they managed a word or two, every syllable imprinted itself on Marlowe's brain, like a cattle brand, or Inquisition torture.

Marlowe found that he could not sleep well lying next to her. Everything about her was distracting, fascinating. Even as she slept, sighing slightly, dressed convincingly as a man, her body was a flame, fluttering, blinking; living in a circle of light.

At first he did his best to tell her how he felt, but she hadn't taken him seriously. So he hid his true feelings, instead discussing his theories, idle supposition, concerning the murder of Walter Pygott.

Lying in that field in France, he knew he was in love with her. He also knew that she had feelings for him, but would never acknowledge them, not even to herself. The daughter of the most powerful man in England was unlikely to glance more than once at the son of a cobbler.

In the end he began to compose lines of poetry in his head.

“It lies not in our power to love or hate,” he thought. “For will, in us, is overruled by fate.”

*   *   *

A sudden flurry of approaching footsteps roused Marlowe from his contemplation. His heart jumped a bit. There was no telling who was about to come into that room.

The door swung wide and Sir Francis Walsingham strode in, dressed in deep burgundy, skullcap atop his head. Behind him there were two guards and a remarkably beautiful young woman. She was adorned in blue satin and lace. Her hair was pulled back and decorated with violets the exact color of her dress.

Marlowe gasped and held his breath.

Walsingham moved briskly to the desk and sat. The young woman took a chair at the table, eyes down. Marlowe watched as the guards drew weapons, stepped into the hall, and closed the door behind them.

It took the entirely of Marlowe's strength to remain silent.

His fortitude was rewarded, at last, when Walsingham looked up and Marlowe saw that the old man's eyes were red—from sleeplessness or tears, it was impossible to tell.

“As you know,” Walsingham began, his voice hoarse, “my—my daughter, Frances, was able to obtain a great deal of information this past Christmastide while she was ensconced at Coughton Court, the Throckmorton home in Warwickshire. She posed there in the guise of the sickly
Richard,
whom you have met. Unfortunately, someone in that household, we do not yet know who, alerted Throckmorton to the possibility that
Richard
might be a spy. As my daughter was bound for London, she was taken prisoner and held on Malta.

“That might have been the end of the story but for the fact that,” Walsingham paused and consulted several papers in front of him on the desk, and then said, “a certain person by the name of
Tin,
a serving girl smitten with—with Richard, happened to overhear that something had happened to Richard on the way back to London. Tin, the rare girl herself, able to both read and write, penned a letter to the courtier she supposed to be Richard's father. The missive came to me, and your recent adventure was set in motion. What you do not know—”

“Oh, for God's sake, Father,” the girl at the table sighed impatiently, “Marlowe isn't one of your idiot underlings. He's a genius: a poet possessed of a remarkable mind, and a swordsman second to none. Please don't give him speeches, especially about facts of which he is largely aware already. Just
speak
.”

Marlowe realized then that the lovely young woman seated at the table was Frances Walsingham. He would not have recognized her at all but for the fact that she'd called the old man “father.” He studied her perfect oval face, the blush in her cheeks, the dark green eyes—he should know that face anywhere, but he found himself searching for any other sign of the ragged girl in men's clothing. There were golden hoops in this woman's ears, and a starched white collar held her neck stiffly. The dress was ornate, though not overdone, and revealed less of her figure than had the ill-fitting uniform from the
Ascension
. Her hands were white as snow, not at all the hands that had held swords and battled men. Primarily it was her demeanor that made this woman a different person from the girl he'd come to know. This woman was not a gallant spy. She was a lady-in-waiting at the court of Queen Elizabeth.

He realized then that he was staring, and felt a fool for not having recognized her as soon as she had entered the room.

“I—I,” Marlowe stammered, staring at Frances.

She stood. “This is all a bit too awkward for everyone. Let me speak plainly, then, if my father will not.”

Marlowe nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Walsingham, too, was nodding.

“Christopher Marlowe,” she continued, extending her hand, “you saved my life, and, more important, you may have saved our Queen. I am in your debt, as is your country.”

Marlowe stared at the white hand, so close to his body.

“I am uncertain,” he managed to say, forcing the merest smile, “whether I am to kiss this hand, or clasp it.”

He turned to Walsingham.

“You see, my lord,” he went on, “I have come to know this individual, a little, during our travels, and found her to be the bravest person I have ever met. My admiration for her is boundless, as is my respect. On our arduous journey from the banks of Italy to the streets of London, we—I was constantly astonished by her ability to—”

“Marlowe means to say,” she interrupted, coming to stand by his side.

But her father would not let her finish.

“I began to train my daughter in the art of spy craft when she was nine years old,” Walsingham snorted, not looking at either of the other two. “She has so far exceeded my wildest hopes, that I, too, Mr. Marlowe, find myself constantly amazed by her. She is sufficient unto herself. She needs nothing and no one. She is a more formidable child than any man's
son
on this planet.”

“The point is,” Frances interjected, obviously encouraging her father to proceed with his business, “that I stand here as a result of Mr. Marlowe's efforts, and you wish to thank him for his service.”

“Ah,” the old man said, and sniffed. “Yes. Well. Christopher Marlowe, you are as of this moment in my direct employ. A small fee will be paid into a secret account for your benefit only. Of course, none of what we're saying in this room can be known by anyone else. To the rest of the world, you are still a student, a poet.”

“I don't understand what it means,” Marlowe began, “to be in your
employ
.”

“Your immediate task is to address the murder charge against you,” Walsingham answered gravely. “That circumstance is most severe.”

“But the solution is immediately at hand,” Marlowe insisted. “Dr. Lopez will testify that we left Pygott very much alive in Cambridge. Lopez will be in London any day, and there's an end to the ridiculous charges.”

“You misunderstand,” Frances said softly.

Walsingham looked away. “We have received word.”

“Rodrigo Lopez,” Frances explained, barely above a whisper, “is dead.”

Marlowe was certain that his exhaustion and the rigors of travel had affected his hearing, or his comprehension.

“Dead? No.” He shook his head. “That can't be. He was fine when we left him on the beach. And—and he is a man who cannot
be
killed. He's not dead. You've been misinformed.”

“We received a missive from Captain de Ferro,” Walsingham confided. “He found the doctor and another man beside a longboat on the shores of Sicily, near Pozzallo. Each had been shot at least a dozen times, stabbed repeatedly. Both men were dead.”

“It wasn't Lopez,” Marlowe insisted, but his voice had weakened.

“I'm afraid it was, my boy,” Walsingham said, almost warmly. “It's a great loss to the nation, and to our Queen. He twice saved her life. He was to be the royal physician.”

“He told me.” Marlowe's head was swimming. “I'll—I'll return to Sicily. I'll find the men who killed him.”

“No,” Walsingham said simply. “You will return, under some disguise, to Cambridge. You will find the murderer of this boy Pygott. That is your only mission!”

“What?”

“Listen to me.” Walsingham stood up, his voice gaining strength once more. “I have plans for you. Her Majesty has plans for you. You've been tested and found to be superior in every way. You saved the life of my daughter, England's finest spy. There are great things in store for you. Things you cannot accomplish from the end of a hangman's rope.”

Marlowe opened his mouth to further protest, and then his mind cleared, and he saw something on Walsingham's face.

“There's more to Pygott's death than the revenge killing of a bully,” Marlowe concluded. “This has something to do with his father, a man with wealth and connections. Sir John Pygott is one of Throckmorton's conspirators.”

Frances turned to her father, a faint smile on her face.

“I told you he was quick.”

Walsingham nodded. “This is a paltry man with middling means, unhampered by learning or wit.”

“Well,” Marlowe agreed, “that's Walter Pygott, certainly.”

“Was,” Frances corrected. “That
was
Walter Pygott. You must ask yourself who might wish to see him dead.”

Marlowe shook his head.

“I must ask myself who would
not
wish it,” he mused. “That would be a smaller number. Everyone at the campus hated him, and with good cause. He was a bully and a braggart and he had bad hair. But knowing that his father is a traitor to our Queen, I begin to suspect that the son might have had some small part in the treachery, and
that
is what got him killed.”

Walsingham smiled. “There you are, Marlowe! There is the man England needs, who can digest tragic news and still turn his mind to the pressing task at hand. Yes, we believe that Walter Pygott's death is the result of chicanery and plotting. The attempt to blame you for the murder is a part of a larger ploy to eliminate you as our agent.”

Marlowe stared into space. “Solve Pygott's murder and I pull a thread that may unravel the larger tapestry.”

Walsingham let go a sigh. “Exactly.”

Frances came close and touched Marlowe's arm. There was a palpable spark, but everyone in the room ignored it.

“Come, then,” she said. “Let us see to your disguise, and plan your next few moves.”

“Resolve this business with all haste,” Walsingham admonished. “The plot against the life of our Queen is at hand, perhaps not even days away. Go now.”

With that the door swung open and guards entered.

Frances tugged on Marlowe's arm, leading him from the room.

When they were gone, Walsingham sat down once more, shuffled the papers on his desk, and then smiled.

 

TWELVE

CAMBRIDGE

It was a small room, but close to the college. Marlowe stood in the doorway staring at the wreckage of his former home away from home. He studied every inch of the place. It was eight foot square with a small window and two narrow closets, one for personal items and the other for a basin and chamber pot. The desk had been overturned, and black ink was everywhere. Torn scraps of paper were strewn wildly. The worst of it was the bed. It had been torn apart. All four posts had been broken, and the mattress, or what was left of it, was revolting. It appeared to have exploded from the inside, and there was evidence of blood and viscera. A bizarre odor of decay and citrus hung in the air, despite the open window. Someone had attempted to obviate the smell of a dead body by rubbing lemons on everything.

Marlowe was uncomfortable in his disguise. The skullcap was tied too tightly under his chin, and glue from the theatrical ginger beard itched. The odd cassock he'd been forced to wear was constructed so that he had to stoop a bit, as if his back were slightly twisted. He had only seen himself for a second in a looking glass, but he was certain that even his own father would not know him.

As he stepped into the room at last, he heard a slight rustling behind him. Stepping quickly behind the door, he drew out his dagger.